SherLost
by 221BBC-MissMoriarty
Summary: ..."Wait, you see him too?" Trigger. Angst. No slash. Reunion!Fic
1. Chapter 1

**And to enter my first Sherlock story, why not make it angsty and depressing? Have you ever gone onto Netflix, thinking "Hmm, Doctor Who, or Sherlock"? And somehow find yourself watching The Fall? Yeah. not good. Especially when I have done it 4 times in the past week and a half. So, using Tumblr as a distraction, I find this brilliant trigger warning idea for Johns reaction and just went - FUCK YEAH THIS IS SO HAPPENING.**

**So, here it is!**

**Trigger Warning: Depression and a helluva lot of angst**

**No JohnLock, just the brilliant bromance. Well, if you squint maybe...**

_"Um. Hm. You... You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human... Human being that I have ever known and no one will ever convince me that what you told me was a lie. And so...there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. Just one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...Dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it...Stop this..."_

John never felt this before. This...this... _utter heartbreak._ The pain was unbearable. A high pressure constraining his breaths, and was that - was his eyes watering? How could they be, being so empty? Not even the dimmest light left in them, crushed out... crushed like - like- like him - No. He couldn't even think of _him_, his "one true friend". He was so alone... Till that dreading and yet exhilarating day he met the man that would change his life, Taught him the meaning of life, raised him from the traumatic and depressing hell after the battle.

Now he was back. Back to the hell... The cold grip around his heart tightened as his throat closed up. He wouldn't cry... not here. John took a shaky breath, trying to open his throat, only to muffle a sob.

But, but why Sherlock? Why? He was doing so well... Solved every case, prime time of his life... Did he just jump because Moriarty beat him? No, he couldn't. John was going to be there for him. Like how Holmes was there for him. It was his turn to help Sherlock raise a foundation from rock bottom. Now he was gone. All that remained of his closest companion was a rock. A solid substance. Just like the one that caused his end.

All that blood... soaking into the concrete... The broken body... The crowds gasp as he jumped... John shook his head to get the image out of his mind - out of his life.

_Please Sherlock... I can't handle this without you. I need you to help me get over you. I need you Sherlock. Please, please come back...Stop this...Stop this please..._

Sherlock saw.

All of it.

He saw Ms. Hudson leave, after mumbling under his breath a not-too-innocent comment about his stuff being moved. He listened to Johns confession, and wanted nothing more to hug - Yes, physical contact, _and_ a sign of emotion - and comfort his special army doctor. The way John fisted his mouth to muffle a sob, his hollow eyes brimming with tears... but Sherlock couldn't resist when he saw his Watson step back, a severe limp threatening to topple him over. Instead John sat there on his knees, head bowed.

A pathetic looking sight indeed.

Sherlock slowly and silently approached the mourning man. It hurt to see John in such a state, all due to him. No, Moriarty is the true blame. But still. Sherlock, though he would never show it, hurt deep within his heart. Yet he was giddy too. He would be able to brighten Johns cloudy parade once more. Sherlock ached to see the smile on his lips and eyes returning with light upon seeing him live and healthy. Maybe it _was_ a psychotic thing to feel, but Sherlock Holmes could have squealed like a little school girl in excitement.

"Pity, I expected more than just a name. No 'dearest brother, greatest friend' engraving?" Holmes found himself smiling, looking down at his flat mate.

His smile wavered as John didn't even move.

No eyebrows raised in confusion? No triumphant hug for Sherlocks miraculous return? Not even an angry blow?

No emotion... at all?

"Pity this waste of rock was even set here." came the whispered and hoarse reply.

Well at least there's some emotion. Sherlock frowned. Perhaps this was Johns way of dealing with grief or loss. Much like his leg. Sherlock found his friend a fascinating specimen.

"I actually don't mind having my name engraved in stone."

"Especially cause you put it there." John said, an edge to his tone, telling Sherlock he had crossed the line. Sherlock uncharacteristically fell silent, the pregnant silence broken by a cry from John.

Immediately the idiosyncratic detective crouched and was by his side, arm around him in comfort. John didn't acknowledge the arm, shaking but withstanding tearshed. This gave Sherlock a good chance to observe his tombstone.

What a strange this it is, seeing your own grave. Gave one a sense of impending doom, a finale end, and a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. And yet - Sherlock found a strong pride in cheating death in his own innovational and intellectual way.

"John." Sherlock whispered, surreal, and soft. "Lets get you home."

a light chuck, void of any voice shook the doctor.

"I already told Ms. Hudson. I can't go back without you. Cant go back. To ma-many m-m-memoriess" his voice cracked.

For once, Sherlock was confused by that statement. But this wasnt' about him. No, definitely not. This was about John - he needed to help John.

"Well, I'm here now. Lets go home."

"Oh Sherlock," John looked up, a sight to even surprise the consulting detective. Tear tracks ran down his face, depression carved into his features, a fake smile, out of place, yet filled with grief. The next phrase caused a shiver down Sherlocks spine, reminding him of how harsh reality can be. "But we both know that's not quite true."

And yet, the army doctor, having gone through wars, bloody battles, and escaping death countless times by the width of a bullet was utterly heartbroken. Crushed. Done for. He stood up, all on his own, his damned leg failing him once more. Unconsciously leaning on the cause of his grief, limping away from the sunset of his past, into the dark recesses of his own infinite night.

**-Signing off in my old and new pen name,**

**Secrets Out!**

**Till next time,**

**MissMoriarty**


	2. Chapter 2: Cabbie

**2 MORE HOURS. 2 MORE HOURS TILL IT FINALLY BECOMES CANON. THE REUNION, JOHN BETTER PUNCH SHERLOCK IN THE FACE, THE BIG REVEAL OF HOW, AND OMFJKLADSLJKFADSLHIGRJDFJSAKL I CANT DEAL WITH THIS.**

**Oh hey, you guys should check out my tumblr too. bendythemagnificent**

**But by the by - disclaimer and such - heres SherLost!**

How many visits has it been? How many times has John and Ms. Hudson, decked in black, climbed into the black interior seating? How many times has Mycroft been forced to deal with the stolen cab, and the unpaid fee?

For every meeting, for every mourning, every time, Sherlock was there. He donned the hat, opened the door, and they never saw. He had the route memorized, engraved in his brain, a special pedestal in his Mind Palace.

For when they visited _it_, Sherlock was the cabbie.

Quite ironic, the case, that brought them together - the one in which John _killed someone for Sherlock - _was about a cabbie. And the one chance Sherlock could willing _be out in the open with John_, he was a cabbie. Drove them to and from, and quickly disappeared again. He waited it out with them, hiding behind the tree, his collar popped.

For what is a cabbie, other than a back of a head? A mass of black curls, nothing more, nothing less.

And thus he was again.

As Sherlock led John to the stolen cab, John was on the fits of hysteria. Tears unwillingly dripped down the army doctor's face, as he unwillingly limped his way to the black car. His limp, brought on by a different traumatic event. Not a shot to the shoulder, but a shot to the soul.

The ride was quiet, as expected. Ms. Hudson took a different cab, a while ago, before the confrontation, before Johns..er, confession... as she headed to visit a relative - friend maybe? Sherlock wasn't attentive to that, the fact deleted. John resumed his usual "cab stance", looking out the window, eyes dazed over, body language telling the cabbie off. And as Sherlock peered into the rearview mirror (as he does many times in such rides), he couldn't help but feel his heart twinge.

Forcing himself to look away, the detectives overactive mind wandered. He thought of the other ironic cabbies - Moriarty, with the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot. A cabbie he didn't pay enough attention to (a fact he still regrets), one he wrote off as a young man, with a dead end job, a young man with little importance to his life. Yet that 'cabbie' changed him inside and out, more than he would like to admit. He thought back to a "Study in Pink" as John's blog put it. Yet another cabbie, judged before deduction, that changed his life.

"A Study in Pink"... John's blog. Sherlock reminisced about that forsaken blog. So many times he told John off about it.

_"No, don't tell them that." _

_"What a stupid title."_

_"That is not how it happened, John."_

_"Again, with the hat picture?"_

And so many times he read that blog over and over again, from the first case, to Sherlock's downfall, to the annoying comments by obviously stupid people with a lack of grammar. He read it over and over, as a way to remember the way his life was. He was genuinely _happy_ with his flatmate, his friend. The blog was his last connection to John.

But not anymore.

Now he had the real thing, the real John. Yet, it wasn't the real John. He was broken. Sherlock broke him. And now Sherlock was going to fix him.

"Here, sir." Sherlock gruffed, knowing John wasn't listening to recognize the vocals. He pulled over, let John out, and watched as the man struggled with the keys to 221B. Sherlock looked back, into the cab, almost sad to leave it. It was nice, to have such a connection, even if the hunk of metal was really just a symbol, for his clandestine connection with John.

_"Sentiment."_ The word snapped with a lack of respect. Sherlock looked back up to John.

"_Sentiment."_ This time, more caring, more cautious, full of..._feeling_. Feelings for John. Yes, he loved him - but not in a romantic, or sexual way. No, this was a different type of love.

"They are in your right pocket, John." Sherlock advised, as the army doctor fumbled for the key.

"...er, thanks." a soft whisper came, as John looked behind him, almost as if...

_He's making sure no one is watching._ Sherlock deduced. With a shake of his head, Sherlock walked around John, into the flat. Damn, it felt good. Sherlock Holmes finally, after waiting for so long, felt at home. He turned around, facing his friend. No, this wasn't home. What was that saying? "Home is where the heart is?" But while searching Johns face, Sherlock came to a horrible conclusion.

Johns heart was broken. Sherlocks heart was broken. A broken heart, means a broken home.

And Sherlock was determined to fix John.

That's it.

_That's fucking it._

No more, no more, no more... John couldn't handle this. He was never going back. Ever. That stupid hunk of rock.

_hunk of rock._

_blood soaking into the hunk of rock_

Dammit John! Pull yourself together! You are a damn soldier! You are being a pathetic, weak, little - what would Sherl- no, don't even say it. _His_ name, you don't deserve it. You don't deserve _him_.

"Here sir." The gruff voice broke his dazed spell. Sighing, John stood up, his leg twitching.

_Damn you_. He cursed his leg, and cursed his eyes, clouded by tears, brought on by _Him_. _And dammit - where were his forsaken keys?_

"They are in your right pocket, John." The baritone sent a spark down his spine, the doctor momentarily frozen. A shiver of truth shook him back to reality, and John looked around the street, in case anyone saw what he was about to do.

"...er, thanks." John whispered, almost scared to do such a thing. What was he doing, actually communicating with... _Him?_ The door swung open, and _He_ swept past, Belstaff opening like a cape as those long legs jumped the stairs, two at a time.

For a brief second as _He_ passed him, a brief happy second, John could feel his presence. Feel his being, smell his musky aroma, and it hurt. It hurt him _He_ left, _He_ left him to his own nightmare. And now _He_ was here, well, "here". John's mind was truly cruel. He saw _Him_, as heclimbed the stairs, happy, acting as if henever left, then he looked back.

Those grey eyes never lost their shine, their knowing glimmer. And that smile, saved specially for John... Every detail was engraved in Johns brain, every line, from the cupids bow to the freckle above his eyebrow. Yet, there was something else, something new added into that face. A hint of sadness, concern, uncharacteristic in his eyes.

"_Aw bugger it."_ John could play along. In fact, it would be rather nice. And so for a moment, John accepted that _He_ was "back", figuratively speaking.

And for that moment, John didn't have trouble climbing the stairs. His leg didn't feel like a fire, stretching and burning within his muscles. His heart didn't wrench and threaten to stop with every beat, and his eyes didn't water with every breath. For _He- _No, for Sherlock was back.

Even if it was only in his mind.


End file.
